The Beloved (10 page)

It was Eli who received the news from a red-faced Dr Fox. ‘What do you mean, she's gone?' he asked. ‘Gone where?'

‘She threw herself from the carriage. There was nothing we could have done.' Dr Fox unconsciously straightened his bow tie and wished he was back in the sanctuary of his office at Brislington House. ‘She is obviously in a far worse state of mind than we at first presumed, but I have every faith that she will be back here by nightfall. After all, where else has she to go?'

‘And if she doesn't come back?' Eli was at a loss. It wasn't right that he should bury his father and lose his sister all in the same day.

‘She will,' said Dr Fox. ‘And if you could see your way to allowing myself and Mrs Abbot to stay here this evening, then we will make sure this doesn't happen again.'

Eli installed them in the drawing room. Dr Fox sat gracefully in a chair by the window and picked up a discarded newspaper to read. It was, Eli realised with a pang, the last paper his father had ever read.

Eli wondered, in hindsight, whether it would have been best to have Mrs Abbot wait in the kitchen. She didn't belong in a drawing room. It was fortunate that Mama was indisposed. The sight of Mrs Abbot seated broad and heavy on the delicate cream sofa would have proved the final straw for her.

The house was quiet and smelled of sadness and decaying flowers. Temperance lay in her darkened chamber, overcome with shock and shame. A small draught of laudanum had calmed her enough for Jane to help her out of her mourning gown and into a robe.

How could Alice have done such a vile and wicked thing? Every time Temperance closed her eyes she saw the same thing; Alice plunging headlong into Arthur's grave and the expressions of horror on the faces of the gathered mourners.

Temperance whimpered and tossed her head from side to side. Even the cool cloth that Jane laid upon her forehead did nothing to banish the terrible images from her mind. At least Alice was out of the way now, locked up safely, hidden from prying eyes and the gossip-mongering. But even so Temperance wondered, with fear clutching at her heart, could she ever undo the damage? Would Bridgwater's finest ever grace her drawing room now?

Eli thought it would be better not to inform his mother of Alice's disappearance. Not yet anyway. Alice would be back soon. Dr Fox seemed certain of it. And what was the point of distressing Mama further, if the problem could be dealt with quietly and discreetly?

Eli paced the house. He couldn't settle. He couldn't find a place to be. It was too lonely in his bedchamber, knowing that apart from Mama's room, all the others along the corridor were empty now. The library reminded him too much of Papa, with the cracked leather armchair still bearing his shape, and the books, half read, still open on the table. He couldn't bring himself to open the door of the study, knowing that inside would be the whole essence of his father: the sweat of him, the echo of his voice in the corners of the room, and the marks of his pen on a hundred sheets of paper. Eli couldn't bear the thought of the drawing room either; he had nothing to say to Dr Fox and Mrs Abbot.

So he found himself in the kitchen, sitting at the scrubbed wooden table, watching nameless servants going about their work. He was amazed. Life had come to a standstill upstairs, but down there, amidst all the scurrying and washing and kneading and stirring, you would never know the house was in mourning. He took some comfort in that, and tried for a while to imagine that nothing had changed, that his life was still as easy as it always had been. He ate a slice of sweet gooseberry pie that someone placed in front of him and drained a jar of beer. He wished he could escape on horseback to the moors and ride forever, and never have to face this new way of living. He knew that soon there would be lawyers and business meetings and he would have to prove himself in a man's world.

But for now, the kitchen was his haven, and he sat and watched the comings and goings and waited for Alice. The hours passed. The afternoon drifted into evening and still there was no sign of Alice. Candles were lit and the servants sat warily at the table and shared their supper of cold meat and pickles with Eli.

The kitchen quietened, and gradually emptied, until only a couple of servants remained, stoking the fire and scouring pots. Eli knew then that he couldn't hide any longer. With a heavy heart he climbed the stairs to the main house and made his way to the drawing room. Dr Fox was asleep in his chair, his legs still neatly crossed, his hands folded in his lap and his trim beard resting on his chest. Mrs Abbot was asleep too, sprawled out on the cream sofa, her chins shuddering with every snore.

Eli coughed loudly. Dr Fox's head jerked upright. ‘She is back?' He looked hopefully at Eli.

‘She is not,' said Eli. ‘And I would like you both to leave now.'

Dr Fox raised his eyebrows. ‘If  …  if you are sure,' he said. ‘But is there nothing else we can do to help?'

‘You have done enough,' Eli said. He was trembling with the effort of keeping his temper. He felt like a young boy again, who hadn't got his own way. He wanted to stamp his feet and yell loudly, then run to Mama so she could sweet-talk him and tell him everything would be all right. But he wasn't that boy any more and Mama was the one who needed him now. He reached for the decanter that sat sparkling on its silver tray, and splashed an inch of amber brandy into a glass. He took a deep breath and poured the burning liquid down his throat. He gasped, then turned back to Dr Fox. ‘You have lost my sister,' he said, ‘and unless you are going to search the streets and back alleys and poorhouses yourself, then I would like you out of my house!'

My house
. It was his house now, Eli realised: the bricks, the mortar, the furnishings, the servants – all of it. He was responsible now, and the knowledge of that made him nauseous. He nodded to Dr Fox and glanced over at Mrs Abbot, who was struggling to her feet. ‘You can see yourselves out,' he finished. Then he dashed from the room and just made it to the potted fern that sat at the bottom of the stairs as the brandy surged from his stomach.

There is just the quiet of this barn now, and the warm, dry, sunshine smell of straw. I have left Dr Fox and Mrs Abbot far behind and all that matters is that I am here, in this small dusty corner. I want to sleep, and so I do, burrowed safely under the straw. It is a dreamless sleep. When I wake the light has changed to a dusky orange and I am so hungry I feel my stomach has been ripped from me. I wince as I stand. My hip is bruised where I jumped from the carriage and my bones are stiff. I brush powdery stalks of straw from my gown and poke my head around the barn door. The farmhouse across the yard glows warm in the evening sun. I imagine a family inside sitting down to a supper of bread and pork and hot potatoes, and my belly growls.

I have no money, nothing to purchase food with. The only thing of value I have is the gold locket around my neck that Papa gave me for my tenth birthday. And I would rather starve to death than part with that. As I look out into the quiet of the farmyard, I realise that for the first time ever, I feel at peace with myself. Despite being dressed in a filthy gown, with nothing to eat and no place to sleep, I feel calm and full of purpose. I know where I am going now. I just need to find my bearings.

I limp across the yard and knock on the farmhouse door. As I wait, I hastily check my hair for any stray pieces of straw. A woman eventually answers. She is ruddy-faced but kindly looking. She looks me up and down and waits for me to speak.

‘Good evening,' I say brightly. ‘I wonder if you can help me. I am travelling to the village of Spaxton and I seem to have lost my way. Could you  …  could you point me in the right direction please? If  …  if it isn't too much trouble?'

The woman raises her eyebrows at me and considers for a moment. ‘George  …  George!' she shouts over her shoulder. ‘A young lady here wanting directions.' She leans on the door frame, waiting, her eyes flicking from my boots to my hair and back again.

Eventually, a man appears at her side. He is wearing thick brown trousers and a grubby shirt rolled up at the sleeves with a pair of braces dangling loose at his sides. ‘What you hollering me for?' he says.

‘This young lady,' says the woman, ‘wants to know how to get to Spaxton.'

‘Oh, yes,' he says. And he brings his face close and squints at me. He smells of tobacco and the edge of his white moustache is tinged with yellow. He reminds me of Papa until he coughs thickly and shoots a gobbet of spit out into the yard.

‘If you don't mind me saying so,' he says, ‘you don't look like the sort of young lady who ought to be out on her own at this time of day. And what do you want to be going to Spaxton for in any case?'

Although it is none of his business, I don't wish to offend him, so I think quickly. ‘It is my sister Sarah,' I say. ‘Yes, Sarah. She lives there you see, and  …  and she is not well. So I am going to visit, and  …  and help with the children.'

‘Oh, yes,' he says again. ‘Right you are then.' He glances at the woman, who I presume is his wife, then he points his arm in a vague manner to somewhere behind me. ‘Spaxton's about twenty miles over that way,' he says. ‘Four miles or so past Bridgwater.'

I look behind, then back at him again, and he notices the confusion on my face.

‘Bottom of the track,' he says, ‘You'll see the milestone for Bristol and Bridgwater. Fifteen miles to Bridgwater, it says. Just keep on the main road an' it'll take you straight there. Anybody in Bridgwater will tell you where to go next.' He scratches his head. ‘You planning on walking through the night, are you?'

‘I think I will have to,' I say to him. ‘You see, I have lost my purse, so have no means of paying for a bed for the night. In fact, I don't like to ask, but could you see your way to sparing me a piece of bread?' My face flushes hot as I ask this question. If Mama could see me now, she would die of shame.

‘A piece of bread, eh?' The man looks at his wife and winks. ‘Think we can spare a bit for this poor lost soul?'

The woman elbows him in the ribs. ‘Oh, leave her be, George,' she says. ‘Now listen,' she says to me. ‘I can't have you wandering the countryside on your own at night. We can spare you a bit of supper and there's a bed in the attic. I can see you're from good breeding, so once you get to this sister of yours, maybe she'll see a way of paying us back for our hospitality. Now, come on. Let's get you inside.'

And then it is all kindness, as I sit at George and Ada's table and share a simple supper of bread and jam and a glass of beer. The beer is new to me and not to my liking, but I am so grateful that I even accept a second glass. There is no need for me to speak much, as George and Ada do nothing but chatter. They talk of the weather, their pigs, the chickens and a neighbour who has just lost a wife. I think they have forgotten I am here. But then George drains his glass and leans back in his chair. ‘So, Spaxton, eh?' he says. ‘S'pose your sister's told you about all the goings on there then?'

I shake my head. ‘No, no,' I say. ‘I don't believe she has mentioned anything. Although  … ' I hesitate for a moment. ‘She did mention a place called the Abode of Love.'

‘Did she now?' he says. ‘Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I hear they've even had the newspaper men from London nosing around down there.'

‘And why would that be?' I ask. I am all ears now.

‘Well, seeing as though you're asking, then I'll be a-telling.' He takes up a pipe and taps it on the edge of the table. ‘Pass the baccy will you, Ada?' he says.

‘I'll pass you the baccy, but you can shut up with your gossiping,' she says sternly. ‘There's no need for this young lady to be hearing things like that. It's not decent. And anyway, I think it's time we turned in now. Come on, my dear,' she says to me, ‘I'll fetch you a blanket.'

I rise from my chair reluctantly. I want to stay and find out more about the Abode of Love. I want to know what George was going to tell me. But the moment has passed, and besides, I am a guest in their house and it is not for me to question.

Ada leads me up some rickety stairs to a tiny room in the eaves of the cottage. ‘There you go,' she says. ‘I'm sure you'll be comfortable enough.' I turn to thank her, and suddenly she leans forwards and kisses me on the cheek. ‘I'm sorry,' she whispers. ‘Forgive me for that. Only we had a daughter of our own, your age, up until last year, and it's just so good to have a youngster in the place again.' She blinks quickly. ‘Well, goodnight then, my dear,' she says.

The walls of the house are thin, and as I settle under a blanket that smells of horses, I watch through the window as the end of the day slides into night. The last thing I hear before falling asleep is Ada muttering, ‘She's dressed in mourning, you old fool, didn't you notice?'

The sun is high in the sky when I wake. I blink into it and curse Lillie for opening the curtains and letting me lie for so long. Now I will have missed breakfast and Mama will send for a plate of scraps and force me to eat yesterday's peelings and bacon rind, so that I will learn to respect mealtimes and the value of freshly prepared food. My belly shrinks at the thought.

I sigh and drape my arm over my face to shield my eyes from the sun.
Where are the leather straps?
I suddenly think.
Why didn't I wake when Mama came to release me?

Then it all comes rushing back and I catch my breath as I remember. Papa is dead and buried. Mama has washed her hands of me. I should be locked behind the doors of the madhouse, but instead I am here, in the dusty attic of strangers.
Everything will be all right in the morning,
Papa always used to say to me. But it never was. And it still isn't.

I clamber from the bed and look around for my mourning gown. It is nowhere to be seen. But folded neatly on a stool are a plain wool dress and a clean chemise and petticoat. I pull them on quickly and slip my feet into my boots which I see have been cleaned of mud and polished. I need to be on my way. I have to get to Spaxton and find the Abode of Love. Henry Prince is the only one who can help me now.
Receive me as the Son of God and your flesh will be liberated from sin in this world.

I
will
receive him, and I will be forgiven. I can start my life again and this time no one will think me bad or send me away to rot in the madhouse.

Downstairs in the cottage all is quiet, save for the gentle simmering of a kettle hanging over the fire. It is all so peaceful and ordered. The floor is swept and the table is scrubbed white. The door is open and a light breeze carries in the scents of stone and earth, the sweet smell of cows and grass and the dust of old grain. I should find George and Ada and thank them for their kindness, but suddenly I am in no hurry to leave. I breathe in the calm of it all. I have walked into someone else's life and I want to live it for a while.

Just then, Ada comes huffing through the door clutching a weight of something in her apron. ‘Ah, here you are, my dear,' she says. ‘I left you sleeping. Out for the count you were. Thought you must have needed it, mind. I took the liberty of washing out your gown for you. Mud scrubbed off just fine it did. It's hanging outside drying beautifully.' She pauses for breath and carefully empties the contents of her apron into a bowl. A dozen pale brown eggs clack into a pile.

‘Now then,' she says. ‘I 'spect you'll be ready for some breakfast. Eggs do you?'

I sit at the table and let Ada bustle around me. There's no need to talk. She does enough for both of us. ‘It's so good to have some company,' she says. ‘Don't get me wrong. George is a dear. Good heart on 'im he has. But he's a man! And they're only good for so much, aren't they?' She chuckles and cracks half a dozen eggs into a blackened pan and adds a dollop of butter. She whisks the eggs briskly and within a moment I can smell hot butter and melting yolks. She winks at me as she splashes some yellow cream into the pan. ‘Don't tell George, will you? He only gets cream in 'is eggs on a Sunday.'

Soon, there is a plate in front of me, piled high with glistening scrambled eggs. Ada cuts a chunk of bread and drops it next to the plate. ‘Eat up, then,' she urges me. There are no napkins and she makes no attempt to say Grace, so I do as she says and I spoon the eggs into my mouth. They are hot, buttery and delicious and a world away from the cold, tasteless eggs at Lions House. I eat every scrap and the bread too. Ada sits beside me and slurps a cup of tea. ‘That's it,' she chuckles. ‘You get it down you.'

I feel somehow as if I am doing her a great favour. And it is a good feeling.

After she has cleared the table, Ada asks if I would like to look around the farm. ‘If you're not in too much of a hurry, that is?'

I tell her I would love to and her face lights up, like a pauper child who has been thrown an unexpected coin. She natters away, nineteen to the dozen, as she leads the way across the farmyard. I am introduced to all five of George and Ada's cows and every single one of their dozen chickens. There's a goat too, pegged out beside the barn. It is bleating plaintively. Ada fetches a bucket and with deft hands she milks the goat. She dips a cup into the bucket and offers me a taste. The milk is warm and thick with a strong tang of grass in it. I am not sure I like it all that well, but I tell Ada it is delicious anyway.

We walk past the barn to the small garden behind and I help Ada pull some weeds from between the rows of onions, carrots and turnips. ‘Our Mary used to do this,' she tells me. ‘Before she passed on.'

‘Mary was your daughter?' I ask.

Ada nods. ‘Such a good girl, she was. I miss her so much'

The words are like a slap in my face. I never knew this Mary and the poor girl is dead, but even so I cannot help but feel envious that she had a mother who loved her.

I stand and shake the soil from my skirt. ‘I must get on,' I say. ‘My sister will be expecting me.'

Ada face falls. ‘So soon?' she says. ‘But you must wait for George. He's out in the field today. There's fences need mending. Stay for another meal with us, at least.'

And because she smiles at me so honestly and because she makes me feel so wanted, it is as easy as that for her to persuade me to stay.

The morning winds into afternoon. I help Ada make a pie for supper. ‘I've been meaning to wring her neck for ages,' she says of the henpecked chicken that goes into the pie.

Everything is so easy and drowsy. Ada asks no questions. She expects nothing of me, only my company, and by the time we sit down for supper, somehow, it is taken for granted that I will sleep the night again.

I want to ask George more about the Abode of Love, but Ada won't hear of it. ‘We'll have none of that talk,' she says. And I think it is because she doesn't want to be reminded that I will soon be on my way.

The evening passes quickly. George and Ada are born talkers and by the time the candles are lit I know all about how George first wooed Ada when he worked as a farmhand on her father's farm, and how it took him a whole six months and almost a field's worth of violets to persuade her to walk out with him. Ada laughs like a naughty child. ‘Still brings me a bunch of violets now and then when they're in bloom. Don't you, you old softy?' Her eyes shine when she looks at him.

I know I will have to sneak away come morning. I won't be able to say goodbye to them. It would be too easy to stay. But they are too good for me; I do not deserve their kindness. And if I stay, I will never get to the Abode of Love and Henry Prince will never be able to forgive me for all my badness.

I yawn behind my hand.

‘Look at you,' Ada says. ‘Worn to a frazzle. Time to turn in, I reckon.'

I thank her for supper and before I can help myself, I put my arms around her and hug her quickly. ‘Oh, get on with you,' she says. But her cheeks turn pink with pleasure.